Rubin's Vase
by sodakey
Summary: The aftermath of the Savoy Massacre set in an undefined and nondescript modern AU. Gen. There is a story in here but it will be structured more as a cross section of character moments in a loosely defined space. ETA: I don't normally do this (ever) but I've changed the title. Rubin's Vase is the same concept as Figure-Ground, just perhaps a little more relatable.
1. Chapter 1

Because I always feel to justify myself, or preempt what some readers may question: The change in tense from the first section to the next is deliberate.

Disclaimer: Just having fun.

Warnings: Spoilers for the series even though this is AU, and mild language.

* * *

**Rubin's Vase**

* * *

The exercise – labeled _Advanced Tactical Training with Emphasized Proficiencies in Wilderness Survival_ on top of an official format form somewhere – was supposed to be a wash. Challenging, but an excuse. An excuse for Aramis to spend a week doing things he was already good at while playing at things he already loved to do. All in the company of 21 other guys Athos recognized to be more or less afflicted with the same adrenaline-laced mindset. And as a bonus, all without the actual threat of violence.

A training exercise.

The first thin and crackly mayday call was thought to be a joke by the team working communications relay. And the second, while taken more seriously, was believed to be part of the mockup.

By the time any of the signals found hope for being triangulated, the drop off had already occurred. Nothing more emerged from the relay. Not the emergency beacon. Not even static.

In a gravel-strewn voice, Porthos pressed their position over the phone, but Treville was a wall. _"You're too damn far away and too damn close to it all at once,"_ he said. _"Stay put. That's an order. I'll tell you both when we have more."_

For all Athos stood stalwart in deference to Treville's commands, he deliberated at that. They are The Inseparables. A label that had untraceably sprouted into existence and hadn't seemed likely to ever go away. And yet here they were. Separated.

Porthos knocked his fist into the table and then straightened, scrubbing knuckles through his hair.

Silence and waiting followed after.

And then, too soon for everyone, the aerial images.

* * *

Athos is prepared for devastation. He is prepared for grief—for the deeper insides of a bottle and an existence stumbling in numbness. He drags consolation and bitterness out of the fact that this type of loss, at least, is familiar. He knows what it is to lose a favored brother.

It is as if the universe has chosen to make him an expert at it.

Vaguely, he wonders what he'll do with Porthos. More vaguely, he wonders what Porthos will do with him.

And then the call, ringing in just before the fourth watch of night, thin and thready with a hope that Athos doesn't recognize. "Athos," Treville says quietly. "They've just confirmed. The survivor. It's Aramis."

For a long time there is a blank and stony silence.

Devastation, Athos knows. But mercy. Mercy is foreign.

He has no idea what to do with it.

* * *

The updates are almost harder to take after that.

_Was he injured? Is he safe? Where is he? Where is he being taken?_

The answers are nonexistent and the words that get shuffled around their questions like smoke and mirrors are never long enough.

In the wake of the last bleed of nonexistent information, Athos sits in the dim silence of the long-tabled tactical room and stares out the window. Outside, the weary gray struggle of morning light stares back at him. Sitting perfectly still, he presses his palms to the tabletop and waits.

Waits for his phone to ring just one more time.

Waits for Treville to finally give them what they need to know and tell them a location so they can come. Or to call and tell them it was a mistake.

He breathes out loudly in the empty room, once, but lets his face stay stolid.

There is a blurred pang somewhere in his chest. It bothers him. He thought he'd given up desperation long ago.

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

Could warrant a warning for... excess? Excessive angst, emotion, descriptions... just, excess.

* * *

**Part 2**

* * *

The straightforward ringing from his cell phone is a beacon, as welcome as it is jarring, flaring with grating loudness in the empty space. Athos reaches for it, picking it up as his shoulders twitch.

The world around him has grown hazy, like a dream, and he is jittery in ways he can't reconcile with his own surface image. Jittery in ways he hates and can't find purchase for even as his voice stays solid in response to Treville's information. He finds himself gripping the phone tighter and tighter until the cut of it is bruising his hand and the top ridge is denting a line into his ear. It's a disconnected unsteadiness that builds until a chair creaks at his side and he senses Porthos landing in the seat next to him.

The effect is instantaneous. His heartbeat slows and his hand remembers it has joints it can loosen.

As Porthos wheels his chair a touch closer and drops his head to the table, facedown over his folded arms to listen in, Athos tries to remember when he first realized Porthos and Aramis could do that for him—calm the tide just by being in the same room.

He can't remember if it was gradual or all at once. He can no longer remember starting points. Not in the way he remembers endings.

(Thomas's body hidden away in his coffin.)

(Depositions expanding upon his wife's charges—before she slipped between the cracks and became a fugitive.)

Listening to Treville's voice, Athos stares a moment at Porthos, watching his bent shoulders and bowed head, forehead pressed flush to the cold table. Propping one elbow on the surface, he reaches out his free hand and rubs it unassumingly over the crown of Porthos's hair.

He has long since forgotten if the gesture is meant to settle Porthos or himself. But it's like breathing. Second nature now.

He tries to think very little on that.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later he's grinding the shift on Aramis's jeep. Porthos in the passenger seat. Eyes on the horizon and the radio off.

The hospital feels too far away.

* * *

The smell of antiseptic just within the entrance is overpowering. Athos rations air shallowly through his mouth until his brain can adjust. But there's a disconnect already there that has nothing to do with smell.

Deep and low in the twisted portion of his brain, there's a message on loop that persists in making him feel like he's come to claim a body.

Porthos splays a hand across his chest, just shy of the empty receiving counter. He keeps it there, then glances left to right before meeting Athos's eyes. "Maybe we should split up. I'll try to find Treville—you, maybe see if you can find a doctor that knows something about Aramis?"

Splitting up doesn't feel exactly right, but Athos nods, swallowing slowly.

"Or the other way around." Porthos shrugs, taking the hand off his chest. "Depending on which way we go." He holds up his cell phone, waits for Athos to nod again, and then turns towards the long corridor on the right, following a painted line promising a destination with some sort of waiting room.

Athos waits four seconds at the receiving desk for someone to show and gives up, selecting a colored path of his own. When he finds the wide double doors with _Staff and Patients Only Beyond This Point_ inscribed on them, he pushes through without thought.

* * *

He is two corridors in when he finds the right one. An east-facing hall with long plexiglass windows, corridor benches, and a final double-doored barrier between him and his objective.

It's the glass cut-out in the door's frame that lets him see what he's been looking for.

Athos had been expecting a hospital room, disrupted with tubes and wires—not Aramis standing in a hallway, staring fast out a window.

Silently, with the counterproductive instincts of both urgency and caution, he pushes through, starting down the long stretch, evaluating as he walks. There are sounds around him—beeps and garbled intercom announcements—but the whole of the atmosphere feels quiet and he softens his feet to match.

The gray light of morning has become the grayer light of day. Aramis looks sallow in its glow. And clean. Clean in an overly tight way. Like there'd been an attempt by someone somewhere to scrub the very memories of the mountain off of him. And for all Athos knows they took it too far. Aramis is wearing jeans and a thin sweatshirt Athos has never seen before. His face is empty and expressionless. An empty shell with Aramis gone away.

But then, Aramis sees him, turning his face so that Athos can see the stitching running down his forehead and into his scalp. Very slightly, the blank expression changes. They catch eyes, and as Athos gets closer it's like watching a cup fill up with water. Emotion flooding slowly to the surface of Aramis's face so that by the time Athos is there and reaching for him it's broken open.

Yet to his surprise, the strangled hitching sound that emerges when they touch gasps forth from the depths of his own chest.

Aramis is utterly silent—hands fisting tight and trembling into the back of Athos's shirt.

Athos clutches back, the hard disconnected blur of disbelief cracking. A reactive halogen snaps roughly through his nerves, causing his own fingers to flex more tightly than they should.

It takes a moment for him to worry about the stitches Aramis has pressed against his collar and another to panic at the wild flutter of his lungs. _And what the hell is Aramis doing in a hallway by himself?_ he thinks, but doesn't budge. "Shh," he finds himself saying, as gentle as he's ever been. "Shh," even though Aramis hasn't said a word, nor hardly made a sound.

Lifting his gaze towards the ceiling, he looks up just in time to see Porthos and Treville at the other end of the corridor. Porthos stops dead, then lifts his hands to grip at his own hair, questions all over his face.

Taking a deep and steadying breath, Athos swallows and nods tightly, once, keeping his eyes locked with Porthos's as he grips Aramis's neck and whispers, "Shh," one more time.

* * *

tbc


End file.
